


Glitz

by ethereousdelirious



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Belly Kink, Caretaking, Emetophilia, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Illnesses, Kink friendly, M/M, Vomiting, emeto, kink adjacent, not written to be kinky but if you can get off to this then more power to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethereousdelirious/pseuds/ethereousdelirious
Summary: A stomach bug Nick didn’t know he had catches up to him at one of Jay’s parties. He wants nothing more than to slink home in misery and shame, but he didn't count on Jay catching him before he could leave.





	Glitz

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! I posted this on my Tumblr (same name; ethereousdelirious) a while back and I decided to post it here on AO3 as well.
> 
> I tagged this using both the book and the 2013 movie tags because while it's meant to be based on the book, I was picturing the aesthetics of the movie while I wrote it. Make of that what you will.
> 
> As always, I didn't write this in the mindset of "this is a romantic, shippy story" due to my personal views on Nick & Jay's relationship in canon, but you are more than welcome to interpret it that way if you prefer!

Nick had just decided he was dying, but he had yet to determine whether the embarrassment or the vomiting would kill him faster.

“Too much to drink?” Gatsby asked with a sympathetic smile, leaning in close so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice over the music.

Nick straightened up and staggered back a few steps, away from the bushes. He wiped his mouth on a cocktail napkin and looked up, confused. “No, I haven’t-- I just got here.”

Gatsby gave no indication that he had listened or heard. “Oh, excuse me a moment, old sport. The governor’s here and he wants to say hello. Drink some water.”

“But I--” Nick protested, but Gatsby was gone. Nick sighed through his nose. Between the fevered red of his cheeks and the vomiting, he probably  _ did _ look drunk. Given the context, anyone would have assumed so. He sat down hard on the steps, curled over on himself with his elbows resting on his knees. He wanted desperately to go home, but even sitting here was hard enough. He doubted he’d make it even halfway across the lawn.

The party felt unreal, and Nick felt as though he was separated from the world around him by a thin, white veil.

He couldn’t keep sitting here. The stairs were hard and cold and he was in the way; silks and satins kept brushing against his face and shoulders as people passed in and out of Gatsby’s house.

With an effort, Nick forced himself to his feet. The fairy lights out in the garden rocked and swayed and his stomach gave a seasick lurch. He reached out to steady himself against the doorframe, but something else caught him under the shoulder and held him up.

“Quite the night you’re having. Did you drink any water?”

Nick leaned heavily into Gatsby for a moment, then shifted all his weight to his own feet. He swayed, off-balance. “I’m not--” he tried to say, but his voice disappeared amidst the music and the shouted conversations. Gatsby tried to speak also, but couldn’t make himself heard. He took Nick by the wrist and led him to a quieter corner in the house, where most of the noise emanated from a grand piano which stood surrounded by a semicircle of loveseats.

“Sit here,” Gatsby directed sotto voce. “I’ll get you some water.”

Nick slumped back against the cushions and watched Gatsby disappear into the crowd. It was nice here. The loveseat was comfortable, and cool against his sweat-soaked back. But the walk over had not been kind. Something in the movement had triggered another wave of nausea. He had hoped that sitting still would help his stomach settle, but the discomfort only continued to mount. Nick couldn’t stay here. He forced himself up, breath coming in shallow gasps. It was hard to make out where he was going through all the people, the dresses and suits and lights and shadows. He found a wall and followed it to a closed door that led to the far lawn. It was deserted, but he could hear the splashes and shouts from the pool around the backside of the house.

People didn’t come over to this side because Gatsby had designed it that way. Across this wide lawn was Nick’s house, hidden in the trees and bushes and distance, yet still near enough that the lights and noises would have carried and disturbed him, had he been home.

Nick made a noise in the back of his throat and fell to his knees, bile rising hot and painful in his chest. He caught himself against the wall of the house and heaved. Watching the process made him feel worse, so he shut his eyes until he was sure it was over. That part took longer than expected. The retching continued long after the actual vomiting had stopped, as his body kept trying to force out things that weren’t there any more. It  _ hurt _ . The muscles in his abdomen all ached and clenched and the nausea never fully dispersed, only faded back to something less urgent. Nick stood up slowly and spat. He had to go back inside and explain himself to Jay.

Bleary-eyed, he came back through the doorway and weaved his way through the crowd. The loveseats were just the same as he had left them, quiet and still and tranquil. The pianist played on. Nick sat down and closed his eyes. If he could just fall asleep, maybe he would feel better when he woke.

“How are you holding up?”

Gatsby again. Nick opened his eyes. Jay was standing over him holding a highballs glass filled with what was presumably orange juice. “Been better,” Nick rasped, wincing at the way the words seemed to scrape his throat.

Gatsby frowned. “Drink this,” he said, offering Nick the glass.

Nick took it gratefully. His mouth was dry and still sour with the taste of vomit. He took an experimental swallow from the glass. The light, citrus taste was objectively pleasant, but it felt too thick and sweet in his mouth. His stomach twisted painfully. Nick’s knuckles were white around the glass. He hunched over and pressed his free hand to his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Gatsby said kindly. “Someone’s already spilled champagne on the rug, so I’m having it cleaned no matter what.”

Nick vomited between his legs. There wasn’t much left to come up, just a bit of acid and the orange juice, but it hurt all the same. He was fading, fading, fading, the room was disappearing little by little. He barely registered the hand on his back.

“You’re burning up!” Gatsby said with a start.”Look at me.” Nick brought his head up. Gatsby pressed his forehead to Nick’s, not seeming to mind the sweat. “You’re really not well, old sport.”

Nick couldn’t make himself respond. Piece by piece, he was disappearing, and then he was gone.

He came back to himself in fragments: first he registered a body pulling away from his, the soft cushions against his back, then the music from the grand piano. The discomfort came back slowly also, starting with his dry mouth and ending with his aching muscles.

Though he really didn’t want to, Nick opened his eyes. He blinked suddenly at the light from a chandelier. He was on his back on the loveseat with his feet resting on the armrest and Gatsby frowning down at him. “I don’t like that fever at all, old sport,” Gatsby said, looking Nick up and down. “You haven’t had anything to drink, have you?”

Nick shook his head, not sure if he was up to talking. He blinked slowly, his eyes lingering shut. It would be so easy to just close his eyes and drift away. Never mind the fact that he was at a nice party wearing his nice party clothes talking to the nice party host. He could deal with it all when he woke up, when he felt better.

Gatsby shook his shoulder gently. “You can’t stay here.”

“Oh, right.” Nick sat up slowly, waiting for the ringing to leave his ears before he spoke again. “I’ll be heading home now. I’m-- I’m sorry--”

“What?” Gatsby looked at him like he was crazy. “I can’t allow you to go home, not in this condition. I meant you can’t stay here on the couch; you need to be in bed. Let me help you up.” He edged his shoulder under Nick’s and helped him to his feet.

The shift made Nick’s stomach writhe but they were walking now and there was nothing left for him to vomit up anyway. He swallowed hard and tried and failed to catch his breath.

“Stairs,” Gatsby said, and Nick could hear the frown in his voice even though he was looking down at his shoes.

“I can manage,” Nick said because it had to be true. As they mounted the stairs, his mind went back to the place it had gone when he was a soldier, the place that had kept him sane through days of marching through the gray countryside.

At the top, he slapped a hand over his mouth and was paralyzed until Gatsby put a gentle hand to his stomach. “It’s alright, old sport, I can have the floor cleaned.”

Nick dropped his hand, but nothing happened. The nausea was so intense it was almost painful and the threat of vomiting made him afraid to move and he was still keenly aware of Gatsby’s hand on his stomach. Still, some small part of his brain wished he was just a little sicker, because as awful as he felt, the shame flooding his chest made everything so much worse and he wished heartily not to feel it. “I’m sorry, Jay. I wouldn’t have come if I--”

“I know, old sport.” Gatsby traced his thumb in soothing circles over the front of Nick’s dress shirt. “I asked you to.” He pulled his hand back to his side. “We’re almost there.”

Nick let Jay lead him to a fine bedroom done up in shades of cream and carob. Away from the bright lights of the party and the critical eyes of its guests, the tension fled Nick’s shoulders and he almost collapsed. Jay caught him about the shoulders and set him down on the bed.

Somewhere in the flurry and whirl, Nick caught an ornate, monogrammed “J.G.”

“Jay,” he said, looking up into Jay’s worried eyes. “Is this your room?”

“Best room in the house,” Gatsby answered without really answering.

Nick, drunk with fever, tried to stand up, only to stumble into Gatsby and wind up back on the bed. “I couldn’t-- I don’t want to impose.”   
“I’m afraid I’m not giving you a choice, old sport,” Jay said, his tone not leaving much room for argument. He knelt and started undoing Nick’s shoelaces.

Nick tolerated this in a sort of daze until both his shoes and socks were off and he realized what was coming next. He gave a sort of involuntary shiver and the nausea lying dormant in his belly flared back to life.

Jay took the hint and dived for a wastebasket. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that first.”

Nick couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation; him in Jay’s bed being attended to so solicitously. He ought to be the one apologizing.

Unfortunately, laughing hurt his overtaxed abdominal muscles, so he was only able to let out a pained chuckle.

“Are you alright?” Jay asked. When Nick nodded, he said “Onward and upward,” and quickly relieved Nick of his trousers, which he folded neatly and placed on the floor.

“Jay,” Nick said shortly, a warning. He was curled forward, his hands layered protectively over his belly, pressing the buttons of his shirt hard into his skin. To expose the weakest part of himself went against every instinct he had, especially with the unbearable nausea thrashing so near to the surface.

Jay didn’t say anything. Slowly, delicately, he undid Nick’s bow tie and vest and set to work on the shirt buttons. Every movement was deliberate and gentle, carefully designed to cause Nick no extra pain or jarring. Nick found his tense muscles starting to loosen. He couldn’t relax completely, but he allowed Jay to move his hands aside so he could finish with the buttons.

When he had finished, Jay moved his hands up to Nick’s shoulders so he could finish removing the shirt. Nick’s breath hitched. He leaned forward to try to aim for the wastebasket, but all he could see were Gatsby’s shoes and the pristine white carpet.

Nick closed his eyes and suddenly there was a red-hot hand on his aching stomach. The exhausted muscles contracted and he dry-heaved, feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes. And still there was the warm reassurance of Gatsby’s hand pressed to his abdomen, easing the soreness somewhat. Still, Nick couldn’t help but groan in discomfort

“Perhaps I should send for a doctor,” Gatsby murmured to no one.

Nick shifted listlessly on the bed. “Rest,” he rasped. “Just need to rest.”

“Of course, old sport, of course.” Jay wrangled him under the covers somehow and Nick knew no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Overshare/Analysis Time:  
> I really like The Great Gatsby as a story but I always feel so sad for Nick when I read it, like, he was obviously SO in love with Jay and probably never even realized it. I like to explore the scenario of Jay looking after Nick (for once), especially since he wasn't exactly a /great/ friend to Nick over the course of the book because he was laser-focused on Daisy pretty much the whole time. In that vein, I really don't think Jay as we knew him would ever anticipate Nick's needs and poor, pining Nick would ever voice them, so the only scenario where you'd ever get h/c like this would be when Nick is so far gone that he can't even function :(  
> I would love to maybe someday trample all over Fitzgerald's poignant tale about the American Dream and explore a queer narrative about Jay growing as a person by giving up on Daisy and realizing that true love has been right next to him the whole time in the form of Nick faithfully supporting Jay in his quest of "please I want to f*ck your cousin."  
> Okay, that got weird.
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked the fic!


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